Skyrim Vignettes
by Dicemonkey
Summary: These are going to be a series of disconnected passages, just trying out different techniques and writing styles. Any constructive criticisms will be greatly appreciated.
1. Chapter 1

SKYRIM story

The setting sun cast the world into twilight shades of grey and white, and a faint wind made the roughly spun cloth of my robe itch abominably as I made my way to the city gates, making the scales of my neck prickle. To any passing observer, I would seem a simple apothecary, with my cheap robe and pouch of ingredients, the pitted steel dagger at my waist, for cutting herbs, naturally. Perhaps with a closer look at which ingredients, precisely, I was carrying, there would be suspicion, but people were rarely so observant. Give them an easy explanation and they wouldn't bother to look deeper.

"Hold, Argonian!"

The guard, a burly Nord, barred my way. "Your kind is not welcome in Windhelm. If you must come, use the other gate." He jerked a finger, Dismissively pointing to one side, and without a word, just a slight bow of my head, I went. Wouldn't do to stick in a guard's mind too firmly, better to be out of sight and out of mind.

The first thing that struck me was the smell. Fish, raw and freshly caught, cooked, pickled and everything in between. The smoke of a cooking fire underlay that scent, almost overwhelming the scents of pitch, damp wood. A harbour, then, pitch for waterproofing on wooden piers and ships, a little rot where it was insufficient. And, of course, there were a lot of people living there. The scent was unmistakable, the stench of people working, human sweat and Argonian breath, the acrid tang of fear merging into a cloud of slightly unpleasant sensation. Not somewhere any Argonian would stay given a choice, although I could see many working on the docks.

Fools.

It did not take long to get through the docks. Simply removing the cloak, making a bundle of cloth to carry, and I passed for just another labourer. Perhaps I would have been more inconvenienced if the people here cared at all to see who entered the city. I have little doubt that if an invading army came through, the mailed fist of the imperial legion, they would leave with a dozen more Argonian recruits in tow.

I climbed the narrow stair towards the side gate, shivering slightly at the cold bite in the wind. I muttered an oath, remembering the rather warm, comfortable clothing I had left behind to play the part of a wandering alchemist. Next time, to oblivion with the trouble my thieve's leathers could cause among the guard, at least I would be warm. For now, my destination was clear. A short way away, in front of the main gates, was Candlehearth Hall. A place of warmth, decent food and cheap drink. It had been a long, cold journey this far, even having taken a cart as far as possible, and I did not intend to spend the night in discomfort. The next morning, my business could be done.

I attracted a few odd looks, as I stepped into the tavern,and quickly paid for a room, a loaf of bread and a pitcher of wine. I knew I was being criminally overcharged, but handed over the septims quite willingly. After all, my line of work did not leave me short of funds.

I ate a leisurely meal, washing coarse bread down with the nordic wine. I felt a pang of homesickness, remembering the fiery taste of Argonian bloodwine, the complex flavours and the burn of alcohol; anything the Nords could make paled in comparison, and wine was far from their area of expertise. Nonetheless, it was cleaner than water, and weak enough to leave me clear-headed, not wanting to let my guard down, even in a place as comparatively safe as Windhelm…

That reawoke a trace of the paranoia which had remained a constant companion on the long road through Skyrim, where every shadow, every rustling tree could be one of their agents. I glanced around the room; checked the lock on the window, the door. I doubted that news of the bounty would have spread this far, or that I had been recognised, but even so, worry twisted in my gut. I had left my troubles in Blackmarsh. I just had to remember that; jumping at shadows wouldn't have helped me anyway. I climbed onto the bed, determined to get at least an hour's sleep before I had to do the job.

It's a commonly known dogma among thieves that quieter sounds attract more attention than louder ones; the sound of, say, a scream in the street is loud enough that everyone can hear it, and so it is not your problem. On the other hand, a knife scraping out of a sheath is a quiet sound, and it's quite possible that the only ones to hear it are you, and your would-be assassin. The one picking the lock of my room, however, had clearly not taken this lesson to heart.

The tumblers gave seconds after I had awoken; doubtless, my assailants expected to find me sound asleep, or at the least drowsy and slow. Easy prey. But one does not survive on the road for long without learning to sleep lightly, and as the door quietly opened, my knife was already in flight.

A bulky dunmer filled the doorway, shoulders broad, a pair of blades in his hands. Fortunately, he was unarmoured, probably avoiding attention as much as I was, and so the knife scored a shallow slash across his chest. Not a dangerous wound, in any other circumstance, but the concoction that clung to the small pits and imperfections of the blade gave him cause to pause; he barely made it a step inside before his muscles stiffened,collapsing, statue-like. A muffled curse behind him, as his companion slipped their lockpicks away, but I didn't stay to see who it was, already smashing through the window, diving to the cobbles below. As a cry rang out, some bystander alerting the guards, I was already making tracks through the nighted streets, ragged cloak wrapped close around me.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: This one is mostly just me trying to get to grips with building an atmosphere, fleshing out a character I wouldn't normally write.**

The cave smelled of death. Not, say, of rot, or decay. Not of blood, either. Death had its own scent, something divorced from mere physicality, something cold and intrusive, and it hung over the cave like a shroud, a stain.

There had been three of us, I remembered. The typical size of a Thalmor patrol; Sinyarel, our fearless leader, who I was certain remained at the cave entrance still, waiting to see if we'd found it, myself, Anarron, and poor Arinalin. I shuddered at the recollection of his fate; while the Nords were, of course, inferior in every way to the might of the Thalmor Dominion, their old tombs were well defended indeed, and if one was unwary it took scarcely more than a single misstep to fall into a deadly trap.

It was a pleasant evening when we reached the cave, walking down a thin path through one of the many pine forests in the area, our boots crunching over the frosty ground, breath forming icy clouds. I was thankful for the amulet I'd been issued, a plain silver necklace enchanted to help keep the frost at bay. Without it, the thin sheets of elven armour would have been scant insulation against the freezing environment, as the first justicars learned the hard way.

We set up camp for the night in good order, and soon had a fire crackling merrily, driving back the shadows of the forest. Arinalin had managed to catch an elk with his bow, and it made a fine addition to the meagre trail rations we all carried; warmed by the fire, and our hearty supper, the night was spent full of optimism. After all, those fools the Nords didn't know what lay within the tomb, leaving it undefended, an easy target. We'd have the artefact back to Northwatch before the next sunset. Far safer than the work of rooting out the remnants of the Empire's Blades, or of stamping out the worshippers of Talos, I had thought.

As I squinted into the darkness, the meagre light of my spell scarcely beating back the sepulchral blackness which surrounded me, I cursed my overconfidence. The same overconfidence which had led Arinalin to step onto a loose flagstone, leaving his body broken and twitching, crushed against the wall by the heavy oaken frame. I had almost fallen back there and then, seeing the violent energy of the trap, the crushing speed and power. Only the knowledge of the penalty for cowardice pushed me onwards; the knowledge that certain death was the only outcome of retreat.

Soon, my torch had sputtered out, leaving my in darkness, and I reached within myself, to the reserve of energy awaiting my command, twisted them to a small magelight. Even with this meagre illumination, I felt blind, my world reduced to a pool of light a few feet across. The sounds of stone settling took on a sinister meaning, of skeletal warriors lurking just out of sight, great spiders scuttling ever closer, a trap about to close upon me…

Fear gripped my heart, but I continued, onwards, ever onwards. Perhaps I should have turned, ran. Or perhaps the die was already cast, my choices made, my fate rushing towards me.

In the stillness of the tomb, there is a timeless quality. The world was limited to a small circle of light, the ground under my feet, the cold scent of death. I don't know how long I walked, deeper into the shadows, the necropolis, surrounded by desiccated, mummified corpses. I no longer paid them any heed, my fears becoming numbed, dull. There was nothing to do, but keeping walking, one foot in front of the other. I no longer cared if I lived, or if I died, if the Thalmor could stamp out the heretical worship of the false god Talos or if we could reclaim the true birthright of the Altmer. I simply walked, cold and alone.

By the time I reached the chamber, I was losing my battle with exhaustion. The light I carried flickered weakly, my inner reserves drained and weak, my legs ached dully. I didn't know how far I had walked, for how long; it seemed that all I could remember was that I had to keep moving forwards. Then, ahead, shafts of a cold blue light shone through a stone doorway, piercing through the gaps in the long-rotten slab of wood that sagged on its hinges. Hope surged through me, burning away the cold despair which had gripped me, and I redoubled my pace, letting my own light blink out as I reached the doorway, pushed through. Where there is light, there is life.

The cavern was enormous, lit by strange, glowing fungus, and sconces, where sold gems glowed brilliantly, casting the scene in a deep blue glow. The light glimmered off metal sarcophaguses, lined neatly in rows. Above them, a second level, like a colossal stairway lined with scores of the dead. At the head of the room, presiding over the array like an imperious lord, was a stone throne, carved with nightmarish masked figures, great dragons breathing fire and ice, and other, stranger things. Within sat a figure, clad in heavy armour, plates of steel and ebony. In front of him was a table, and upon it, resting on a small stand, was that which I had been sent for; the artefact that Arinalin died for. A small cube, the colour of burnished brass, sat there, carved with minutely detailed patterns. Such a small thing, which may well have been the key to taking Skyrim for the Dominion, once and for all. After its twin was lost, our leaders were determined that we recover this object, that our plans may not be thwarted.

As I lifted the cube from its stand, I was plunged into blackness, the soul gems clattering to the ground, suddenly doused of all power, leaving me blind. I swore under my breath, calling up my magelight again, tucking the cube into my bag. As I looked up again, I saw a set of eyes, almost glowing blue in the magical light, boring into my own, almost alive, as the desiccated figure on the throne rose to its feet. In a dry voice, it's breath a charnel stench, it spoke, croaking out in a strange tongue: "Aar, Viik Rok!"

I was in no state to fight, in the dark, exhausted, so I turned and ran, stumbling down the stairway, my elven blade in hand. There was a deafening crack, and a shard of stone drew a thin line of blood across my ear, as a sarcophagus was broken open by some immense force. As the sound echoed, repeated, I realised; there was an army resting in those sarcophagi, and they were beginning to awaken.

I had nearly made it to the entrance of that profane chamber, when, with a bone rattling sound of impact, a heavy iron gate slammed sown into my path, sealing me in. My shoulder smashed into the obstruction, with a sickening crunch, and I bit down on a shout. Taking my sword in both hands, I turned, back to the wall, ready to face my fate.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: An attempt at writing a fight scene… I'm not terribly pleased with how this came out, to be honest.**

The teeming mass of undead drew closer to me, ancient blades dully reflecting the flickering light. Notched axes, blunted greatswords, flecked with rust; these would not cut cleanly, but tear through flesh like a sawblade. I tightened my grip on my own sword, a far more elegant weapon, ready to meet their charge.

I was not waiting long.

A desiccated corpse lurched forwards, swinging a war axe at me with a speed at odds with its graceless motions, and I barely deflected it, the axe carving a furrow into the stone floor. As I was trained, I immediately capitalised on the weakness, stabbing out, deep into its gut. A wound which would almost certainly have stopped any living foe, left them writhing in pain on the ground, seemed to merely amuse the fell creature, and as I struggled to dislodge my sword from its carcass, it lashed out again, axe scraping across my armour, the impact deadening the nerves in my arm. I could see a second, a third drawing nearer, dozens more beyond, and as I regained my sword, the true hopelessness of my situation sank in. This was more than any one elf could possibly face. But I would not dishonour my name by dying without a fight.

I swung at the creature in front of me, a savage chop at its arm, almost dismembering it, but before I could strike again it's companions attacked, driving me back, sword flashing as I deflected blow after blow, arm aching with the continual impacts. I backed away, felt the iron of the gate press against my back. It seemed I was almost out of options.

Reaching deep within myself, I fed that despair, anger, fear into the well of energy that fuelled me, and sent it lashing out, magical flames ripping from my outstretched hands. The smell of charred meat and acrid black smoke burned my eyes and nose, but they burned, flames reducing them to withered, charred husks. I grinned, teeth bared, pouring more energy into the flames, sweeping the ravening heat across any which dared come too close. For a brief, shining moment, I was invincible, an avatar of destruction, bringing judgement down upon these lesser beings. But magic always demands a price, and I felt the energy receding, out of my grasp. The flames faltered, for a few moments, but it was long enough. A blade flashed down, ripping through the thin plates of elven armour, into the flesh and muscle of my outstretched hand. Red hot pain ripped through me, and I lashed out wildly, sword flailing at my assailant as I held my wounded arm closely to my chest. Blood flowed freely, and as they kept attacking, harrying me, kept me moving to deflect their attacks, I felt myself weakening, my feet like leaden weights, my armour weighing me down. After a minute of dancing blades, I made my first mistake, a mace slipping past my defences and crashing into my side, cracking ribs, sending me to one knee. I tried to keep my blade up, but it wasn't long after that when an axe crashed down across my shoulder, and my sword skittered across the floor. Bleeding, beaten, they showed no mercy, blades crashing down on me until I was little more than a mangled lump of meat on the tomb floor.


	4. Chapter 4

The ground was slick and icy, wind kicking up flurries of snow which blinded me to anything more than a few hundred feet away, everything dissolving into dazzling white. My armour did little to keep me warm, a thin layer of frost forming over the steel plates, and I swore under my breath, at the cold, the armour, the stormcloaks; if we hadn't had word of an attack on its way, I could still be at the Windpeak inn, warm beside the roaring fire. As a member of the Pentius Oculatus, I was not often called on to aid the legion in pitched battle, but every able-bodied soldier was needed.

I squinted out into the blizzard, seeing nothing more than the looming shadows of pine trees, dark and indistinct through the snow. If the stormcloaks were truly cruel, they would not need to attack; the cold was a biting blade itself, and there was sure to be dissention in the ranks if this was a false alarm. Morale would be a long time in recovering, and meanwhile, my work would be far more difficult, separating treasonous speak from soldiers grumbling.

I turned, looked over my comrades, all clad in the familiar heavy steel armour of the legion, shields held at the ready, stony-faced and shivering. A century from the first cohort of the sixth ironclad legion, there were 160 of us, all heavily armed and ready for a fight. I had never fought beside this legion, but their reputation preceded them, men and women well versed in combat. I had spoken briefly to the centurion, an imperial citizen past his prime, but still strong, unbowed and disciplined. He patrolled up and down the ranks, rapping any who failed to hold the proper position over the helmet with his vitis. Our palisade would hopefully funnel any attackers into our shield wall, stopping any from entering the town; much as the stormcloaks claimed to be 'sons of Skyrim', they did not flinch at sacking any settlement which had not immediately bowed knee to their false king.

Suddenly, a sound, barely discernible from the howl of the wind; I listened carefully, and heard the sounds of drums, a marching beat, and soon after saw vague forms, people coming through the blizzard. And they saw us.

The stormcloaks charged, heedless of the icy ground, hollering battle cries, armed with a motley array of battleaxes, swords and maces. We closed ranks, a wall of muscle and steel, shields ready to turn aside any attack, while Centurion Turio gave the order to loose javelins. A brief rain of metal flew overhead, sowing pain and discord into the charging ranks of the enemy, blood hitting the snow as javelins wounded several of their number. The charge faltered slightly, the front ranks seeing the wounded hit the ground, but they were pushed onwards by the weight of numbers behind them, crashing into our shields like a tide. I almost lost my footing as a particularly large brute, wielding a blade in each hand, rammed into my shield with as much force as he could muster, but before he could press the advantage the legionnaire beside me brought his gladius down upon the stormcloak through a narrow gap between our shields, and I pushed him back, sending him reeling away. But there was no rest, as another of his allies hit, then another; it seemed as if the stormcloaks were without number, an endless tide wearing our defence down. I held firm, the ranks behind me lending their strength to hold the line, and with short slashed of my gladius kept them from maintaining any real pressure.

It was exhausting work, repelling wave after wave, my sword arm burning with exertion, the cold sapping my strength, and more and more blows made it through our defences, the legionnaire next to me felled by a greatsword, lacking the energy to block the blow. I slashed at the man who had done the deed, opening up a deep gash in his arm, while the legionnaire on the other side pushed him back with a blow from his shield. By the time another attack came, the wounded legionnaire had been dragged back into the town, and a woman of the second rank had stepped forwards to resume his place.

Our respite came a few minutes after that, the stormcloaks pulling back. The wind had died down, and, looking up, I saw the magnitude of the opposition we faced, the vast host of rebels. They must have numbered five hundred strong, although the initial assault had left near a hundred wounded or dead, we were still greatly outnumbered. What remained of the first rank, weary and battered, fell back, allowing fresh troops from the second rank to form up, but I knew that it would not be enough, that even if we kept killing them at this rate we'd be exhausted, and eventually overrun. Our position was not strong enough to make up for the disparity of numbers, and we didn't have any magical or mounted support. Without reinforcements, we stood no chance of holding Dawnstar, and if the stormcloaks gained the production of the mines they could arm themselves with better blades, heavier armour. Their lack of strong steel had been a major advantage for the legion, and should that change we'd take ruinous losses. I made my way to the centurion, where he surveyed the battlefield, and introduced myself with a salute.

He faced me, returning the salute, face weary. "Agent Liores," he said, an invitation for me to speak.

"The situation on the field is untenable; we may well hold them for a day, maybe two, but you must see that we cannot hold. The imperial camp to the west has an auxiliary unit of cavalry; if you can spare a horse, I shall carry a message for reinforcement."

He frowned. "If you don't make it in time, the stormcloaks will have dug in, and the cavalry will be torn up. It'll be a tough job to ride there and make it back in force within two days, but I don't see any alternative… Best you leave now, while they're regrouping. You'll have your horse, be at the gate as quickly as possible. Gods speed you."

With that, he sent a runner to relay his instructions, and returned to poring over reports of supplies, battlefield conditions and casualty lists.

Snapping off another salute, I left quickly, making it to the gate at the same time as a civilian led a piebald horse there. Wordless, I mounted, spurring the beast to a gallop as soon as I had passed the gate, determined to make a fair distance before the stormcloaks could mount a pursuit. Wind rushed into my face, bitterly cold, and my teeth chattered as I gripped tightly to the reins, bowed low. There were cries of alarm from the stormcloak camp, but they were soon lost behind me, as I galloped into the setting sun, leaving war and death behind me.


End file.
